Vignettes and Sketches
by Androgene
Summary: A series of stand-alone vignettes and sketches from LOTR. New! A description of Elrond, from Frodo's POV.
1. The Arrival of Elves at Helm's Deep

Name: Androgene

Website: 

Email: androgene@lycos.com

Title: Vignettes and Sketches: The Arrival of Elves at Helm's Deep

Summary: A musing on the coming of Elves to Helm's Deep (movie-verse, TTT)

Date of Completion: 10 Feb 2003

Category: Drama

Rating: G

Warning: none

Author's Notes: 

This clinches it. I swore to myself I would never, NEVER write a LOTR fan fiction. It's just too difficult and complex. Anyone who read Tolkien's books should know what I'm talking about. The styles of the books are not modern, but Victorian and almost quaint. And it's full of information; to stay even remotely historically accurate is a nightmare. It's nice to fantasize about Middle-Earth, but to capture the richness of the texts and doing them justice in the process is just plain arduous.

Then I watched The Two Towers. I felt sad every time I watched the Battle of Helm's Deep. I guess it was the Fall of Haldir that made me break my vow and write this. So here it is, my very first and totally unexpected LTOR fan fiction.

Disclaimer:

All Middle-Earth creations and LTOR belong to Tolkien estate. I made no money from this.

* * *

       They came.

       Marching out of the darkness, a broad ribbon of night blue cloaks, etched with the occasional glints of starlight off bright armor and crested helms. Their hands held elegantly crafted long Elven bows; their backs bore quivers of arrows and bright swords. Their steps were soundless, their walk gliding despite the brisk tempo of their march. Beneath their helms, their faces, though solemn and unsmiling, were fair and beautiful to behold.

       They came, with the twilight at their side and the shadows trailing at their heels. Silent, graceful and unearthly fair, they were a sight never seen before in the living memory of Rohan. Yet spoken so often in tales and songs that not a single Rohirrim did not recognize what his eyes beheld.

       One marched alone at the head of the column, clad not in night blue but a scarlet red cloak pushed back to reveal gleaming golden armor beneath. He wore no helm to conceal the gold fall of his hair, and carried his bow across his back and his sword at his hip. Neither young nor old, his expression was cool and his Elven gaze keen.

       Awed silence descended among the Rohirrim as he led the Elven army into Helm's Deep. The guards fell back respectfully, allowing the column passage though no words were exchanged. 

No words were needed.

Creatures so fair and armed as such could only have one purpose – to fight against the Shadow.

Their help was unexpected, unlooked for. It strengthened the tenuous thread of hope the mortals clung to desperately, lifted the darkness of hopelessness and fear somewhat. And they were thankful that the Elves remembered the ancient alliance that once existed between Men and Elves during the Second Age. 

Yet, their renewed hope was touched by sorrow. 

For Elves were meant to live ever after in the bliss and paradise of the Undying Lands. Such fairness and light were not meant to fall in the brutal, ugly cruelty of war.

How did they feel, many wondered. To choose to sacrifice their immortality for the sake of Men, how did they feel? They, the sole race on Middle-Earth among all creatures, who have the choice to leave behind the dangers and woes of this world, how did they feel? 

Why did they come?

None dared to ask. 

For the Elves moved with a stoic purpose and deadly efficiency, to take their positions along the Deepening Wall. Cloaks were pushed aside; golden armors gleamed under the weak moon. In the gloom of Helm's Deep, each Elf was a beacon of hope and courage tempered by dignity and saddened resolute, candle flames standing fast before the encroaching shadows. 

They must know this would be a desperate battle; that few of them would survive to see the dawn. But they did not turn away; their gazes and hands remained steady. 

Such sacrifice must be acknowledged; it compelled Men to give no less than the entirety of their strength to this last stand.

If Rohan survived the night, they would craft songs in memory of these fair beings - they who sacrificed the Gift of Elves for Men's survival.


	2. The Passing of the Firstborn

Name: Androgene

Website: 

Email: androgene@lycos.com

Title: Vignettes and Sketches: The Passing of the Firstborn

Summary: A retelling of the Ring-bearers and the Elves' leaving of Middle-Earth (ROTK) 

Date of Completion: 10 Feb 2003

Category: Drama, Songfic

Rating: G

Warning: none

Author's Notes: 

This was inspired by the Elven hymn to Elbereth, the scene in ROTK of Frodo's departure from Middle-earth. Actually much of the inspiration came from this album: At Dawn in Rivendell – selected poems and songs from LOTR, by the Tolkien Ensemble. This band was put together in mid-nineties to put music to the various songs from the books and they did a good job of it. The best was the Elven hymn to Elbereth, sang by the Elves on their way to the Havens. It is haunting, sad and majestic, and uplifting at the same time. Listen to it at night.

And this fic drew heavily from that track; I wrote it listening to the hymn, so reading it while listening to the hymn should be even better.

You might find some parts of the fic familiar. You should, since I took them from the books and jst rearranged them somewhat. These lines belong to Tolkien and I just couldn't resist using them.

Disclaimer:

All Middle-Earth creations and LTOR belong to Tolkien estate. I made no money from this.

* * *

_The Road goes ever on and on_

_Down from the door where it began._

_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_

_And I must follow, if I can,_

_Pursuing it with eager feet,_

_Until it joins some larger way_

_Where many paths and errands meet._

_And whither then? I cannot say._

       Frodo smiled as he listened to Sam singing Bilbo's old walking song. His Sam, his dear and loyal friend; it seemed that some of the Bagginses' perchance for travel had rubbed off on his stout and true companion. Not much, but just enough to make this last journey all the more memorable and yet bittersweet.

       They had set out together on this fine golden morning, on their faithful ponies – Strider and Bill – making their way leisurely through the green lands of the Shire. They had not talked very much; there were many spots they passed on the road that brought back memories both fair and foul. Memories they would never forget for the entirety of their lives, though felt like dreams at times.

       Frodo had not told Sam where they were heading and Sam had not asked. But knowing his friend, Frodo had little doubt that Sam already guessed at his destination. Still, he wished to delay breaking the news to dear Sam. 

Partings were always difficult. He wished he never have to leave Sam and his beloved Shire, but he knew better. Unless he took this course, he would never heal and Sam would always be torn in halves.

It was nearly evening and stars were glimmering in the eastern sky when they finally entered the woods of the Shire. 

Frodo stirred in his saddle, feeling the words of a song rising within him. As they traveled deeper into the woods, he began to sing softly to himself, and the words drew Sam from his reverie, for they were familiar and yet different:

_Still round the corner there may wait_

_A new road or a secret gate_

_And though I oft have passed them by_

_A day will come at last when I_

_Shall take the hidden paths that run_

_West of the Moon, East of the Sun._

       Sam shivered. It was the same walking song but the changed words hinted of last travels and final farewells. It was a song that held deeper meanings; Elvish meanings and he couldn't help but wondered why Frodo sang it. 

Then to his ears came fair voices, singing, as though in reply:

_A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!_

_silivren penna miriel_

_o menel aglar elenath_

_Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!_

_We still remember, we who dwell_

_In this far land beneath the trees_

_The starlight on the Western Seas._

As Sam watched in wonder, a procession of Elves came out of the mists along the tree-lined path, fair and stately. 

Elrond rode at the head of the procession. He wore a mantle of gray and a star upon his forehead. In his hands, he played a silver harp and on his finger, glittered Vilya, the Ring of Air. Next to him rode Galadriel, much to Sam's amazement, robed all in glimmering white and Nenya, the Ring of Water, sat upon her finger like starlight. 

The procession stopped before the two hobbits. And to Sam's surprised delight, Bilbo was with them as well, nodding in sleep as he rode upon a small gray pony.

"Greetings, Master Baggins and Master Gamgee." Elrond greeted them gravely but graciously. He turned his ancient yet ageless gaze to Frodo. "You have decided to join us." 

"Join you?" Sam cried out, though he finally understood where his master was going. Still he had to ask, "Where are you going, Mr. Frodo?"

"To the Havens, Sam, and beyond to the Blessed Realm."

"And I can't come?" It was more of a statement than a question, really.

Clear blue eyes, like the color of a morning sky, weary but calm, gazed at him tenderly. "No, I'm afraid not. At least not yet."

"The Days of the Rings of Power are over," Galadriel said with a melancholy but kindly smile. "As it is for the time of the Firstborn. The Fourth Age must be free of burdens to decide its course and for that, we must leave, as do the Ring-bearers."

"But there are still things for you to do," Frodo told Sam. His clear blue gaze became distant, as though seeing far into the horizon. "The Shire still needs you and you have a long plentiful life still laid out before you." 

Frodo placed a comforting hand on his downcast friend's shoulder. "But you were a Ring-bearer once, even if for a brief time. When your life is full, you can come as well to the Havens and sail to the West. I'll be waiting for you, Sam."

"I know that, Mr. Frodo. It's just that I can't help thinking I should be with you."

Frodo laughed. "And you will, Sam. You will. But not now, when you are still torn in two. Live your life and be content."

His laugh faded, to be replaced by a wistful smile. "I wish I can stay. I can stay but I will not heal. I've been wounded too deeply. I have saved the Shire but not for me, I realized long ago. So I travel to the West, to find peace and healing."

"And when you deem it's time, I await your ship at the shores of Valinor." His smile turned bright. "But for now, ride with me!"

They rode on, with Elrond and Galadriel leading the procession, and the hobbits rode behind them, traveling through the Shire: a procession of the fair Elf-kind, shining and glimmering with a light of their own. Many of the High Elves had joined this procession and by the presence of their very beings, they cast a sort of magic about themselves, veiling their passage to all mortals' eyes and ears as they took the twilight paths. 

None saw them, save the wild creatures and trees that watched their passing in silent farewell. Or the occasional lone traveler, who might glimpse a shimmer through the foliage, or a light and shadow that flowed across the fields, and dismissed them as tricks of the eye. 

As they traveled through the countryside, Galadriel sang, her clear crystal voice lifted the hymn to Elbereth high into the air to the silvery music of Elrond's harp.

_A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!_

_silivren penna míriel_

_o menel aglar elenath_

_Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!_

       Clear Elven voices joined Galadriel's in the hymn to Elbereth, fair to hear and moving to the heart. For they sang of sadness at leaving the Middle-earth, sadness blessed and without bitterness, and they sang of bliss they would find in the West. 

       Thus it seemed to Sam that the journey was made in a song – slow, stately, in twilight, yet he was conscious of the days that passed. He sat upon his pony, silent and wondrous, as he listened to the haunting hymn of the Elves. Beside him, Frodo was quiet as well for the song spoke to the feelings in his heart. 

       With their fair voices, the Elves bid farewell to the land that nurtured them for so long, though none would hear, but the earth and the trees. It seemed to Sam that only the land but not the people knew of their leaving, and only wild creatures and growing green things mourned their passing. And in his heart, Sam was sad for he thought everyone, from all races, should know and witness the Elves' leaving. For such fair beings would never grace Middle-earth again.

       When they reached Havens, Sam saw a tall figure standing beside Shadowfax, dressed all in white, and his sorrow deepened. It was Gandalf, who wore openly Narya, the Ring of Fire, the Third Elven Ring of Power, and Sam knew without a doubt that his old friend was taking ship as well.

       "Don't be sad, Sam." Frodo soothed when he saw the tears on his friend's face.

       "You're all leaving, Mr. Frodo. How can I not weep with grief?"

       "It is not farewell forever, Sam. We will meet again, in the lands of Valinor. Till that time, you have friends who can share your grief."

       "And right he is, Sam," quipped a new voice.

       Sam blinked. Through his tears, he saw Pippin and Merry hurrying hastily towards them, breathless as though they had ran all the way to the Havens from the Shire.

       "You tried to give us the slip once, cousin." Merry said smugly. "You didn't succeed then and certainly not now either, thanks to Gandalf."

       Gandalf smiled. "Yes, I did, for the best. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved, as the saying goes. Well, here we stand, the end of the fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace, dear hobbits. Weep if you have to: not all tears are an evil. Someday, if Eru allows, perhaps we shall meet again." 

       Sam dried his tears, mustering a smile for his beloved master. "Take care, Mr. Frodo. And wait for me."

       "I will, dear Sam." Frodo smiled, a wide gentle smile. And turning to the suddenly somber Pippin and Merry, he bid them farewell.

       With Gandalf by his side, Frodo boarded the white ship and went to where Elrond and Galadriel stood, at the stern facing the pier. 

       The Elven hymn to Elbereth changed, a subtle uplift to hopefulness and joy, as the white ships unfurled their sails and set off on their final journey.

_A! Elbereth!_

_(We still remember)_

_Gilthoniel!_

_(We who dwell)_

_A! Elbereth!_

_(In this far land) _

_Gilthoniel!_

_(Beneath the trees)_

_The starlight on the Western Seas._

_(Beneath the trees)_

_The starlight on the Western Seas._

_(Beneath the trees)_

       Frodo kept his gaze fixed on the harbor where his cherished friends stood. From his pocket, he took out the phial of Galadriel and held it aloft, its white light bidding farewell to his home.

       As the evening deepened to darkness, the three hobbits remained at the pier, watching the star of farewell traveling further and further from them, until even its brightness disappeared into the night.

       Then solemnly, silently, they turned away and never looking back, returned to the Shire and their lives.


	3. The Weight of an Elven Stare: Elrond

Name: Androgene

Website: 

Email: androgene@lycos.com

Title: Vignettes and Sketches: The Weight of an Elven Stare – Elrond (FOTR)

Summary: The might of a person is measured by the weight of his stare, and an Elven stare is heavy indeed. Especially in one who has experienced much through the long Ages. 

Date of Completion: 23 Feb 2003 

Category: Drama

Rating: G

Warning: none

Author's Notes: 

Yes, I am putting together a collection of short musings inspired by the books and the movies. In the books, the description of Elrond, especially his eyes, was striking and it inspired this. The weight of an Elven stare – it is a figurative speech. Look at it this way, aren't there times when you can't meet someone's eyes because the person is very overwhelming in personality? I imagine this is how one feel when comes face to face with someone like Elrond.

Disclaimer:

All Middle-Earth creations and LTOR belong to Tolkien estate. I made no money from this.

* * *

       When Frodo first met Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, he was seized effortlessly by Elrond's compelling gaze and did not think to look away. For that few moments, the outside world faded away and he was only conscious of those eyes.

       Those eyes...

       In all the tales of Middle-Earth, in which Elrond played a part, none had ever spoken of his eyes. Perhaps the minstrels had never seen Elrond before composing those lays, or perhaps there were no words to describe that Elven stare.  

       Elrond's eyes were gray as a clear evening, ancient yet ageless, filled with wisdom and memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. There was a light in those eyes, like the light of the stars, though Frodo fancied it as well to be of the light of the Simaril that lingered still. Elrond's gaze was keener than a knife, heavier than a Morgul spell, and infinitely more compelling. It was a gaze that could and probably did see through the veils of the mind.

       Frodo felt absolutely small and exposed under that gaze.

The strength of a person was measured by the weight of his stare, he thought somewhat incoherently, and Elrond's gaze was heavy indeed.

       "Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins." Elrond greeted with a kind smile.

       Frodo blinked.

       It suddenly felt like summer when Elrond smiled, some of the heaviness of wisdom in those eyes lessening with the smile. It felt like a kind summer, of bright sunshine and cooling breeze, of flourishing trees and merry creatures. A summer of plentiful ease, though the awareness remained that such benevolence could easily but not lightly taken away.

Frodo's discomfort diminished suddenly from the warmth in the Elf-Lord's smile. The discomfort wasn't gone completely – Frodo doubted he would ever feel comfortable around him – but it was no longer pressing upon him. 

It was a long time before he could look away.

The memory of those eyes was burned into his mind for the rest of his life.

It was not the physical nature of the eyes, but rather what was held within those clear gray orbs. In Elrond's evening gaze, there was the immense wisdom of one who had lived many ages, the assured strength born from facing many dark things and emerging triumphant, yet there was also the dignified humility tempered by knowledge of the burden and limitations of his power. 

       It was the weighty essence of the Elf-Lord himself Frodo had perceived, an intense concentration of power acquired through long years of summers and winters, distilled and refined so many times that its potency burned like a star. In those ageless Elven eyes, shone a soul whose depths ran as deep as the roots of the oldest tree ever to grow in Middle-earth. 

Yet despite the kindness and warmth, the power and keenness, Frodo also sensed a melancholy and somberness within the Elf-Lord. 

Elves were distinctly different from the mortal races and they perceive the world and time very differently as well. But Elrond was Peredhil. Though he chose the Firstborn as his kindred, surely he must still feel the passing of time even faintly.

What must it feel like to have the world ever changing around you? Frodo suddenly wondered. To witness the coming and fading of countless things doomed to be forgotten while you remained unchanging forever? How did it feel to be so eternal while those around you were merely candle flames?

Frodo shook his head, as though by doing so, he could shake off those thoughts. The burdens bore by someone such as Elrond was almost quite beyond his comprehension. He would do well not to ponder upon it anymore, lest it aggravate his headache. 

Though, as he laid down to rest, he silently promised himself that when he returned to the Shire, he would write down his adventures like his uncle Bilbo. And he would be sure to describe the Elven Lord of Rivendell, with the proper care and reverence. 

For, Frodo was suddenly convinced, someone such as Master Elrond should not be forgotten by the world.


End file.
